


Character Study

by mnemosyne23



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Contemplative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 20:47:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1199679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnemosyne23/pseuds/mnemosyne23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sean and Viggo, fishing and photography.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Character Study

"I got it when Harrison punched me."

The fish weren't biting, but as was the case with all the best fishing trips, they didn't need to be for it to be a success. The day was a rare one - neither he nor Sean were wanted on set. The Hobbits were all on call for today. A thin film of mist clung to the landscape; the weak sun had not yet burned off the remnants of the fog that had wrapped the mountains the previous night.

"Harrison Ford?" he asked softly, though of course, it had to be. They were discussing the scar beneath Sean's left eyebrow, and how it had come to be.

"Is there another? It weren't so much a punch as a bloody great boat hook. Got me right on the eyebrow. Lucky he didn't miss a little farther south and take out the whole eye, or I might be playing an orc now instead of Boromir. I certainly wouldn't have been pretty enough to be an elf."

"You're not pretty enough as it is," Viggo ribbed with a grin, watching his line ripple the surface of the cold mountain lake.

He heard Sean chuckle in response, and without even looking, he could picture the broad white smile that would accompany the laugh. Upon first meeting, most people felt Sean was shy and introverted; a Good British Boy in the most gentlemanly sense of the word. And for the most part, he was. But those people who knew him only as the GBB didn't know that the Sheffield man could be witty, gregarious, and downright raunchy when occasion called for it. Viggo was glad he'd discovered that facet of his friend's personality; it made him feel like he knew a secret few others were allowed to share.

"Where's your camera?" Sean asked, his Sheffield accent sculpting each word. "I think this is the loveliest morning I've seen since arriving here. Reminds me of home, with more pointy bits."

Viggo chuckled and looked at the other man. Sean was perched on the edge of a boulder left by the same glacier that had carved this lake and helped shape these mountains. His boots dangled precariously just above the surface of the water. Clear gray eyes were focused on the point where the fishing line intercepted the water, waiting for a bite that may or may not come, though judging by those eyes, either result was acceptable.

"It's with my coat," Viggo answered, gesturing with his head to the crumpled pile of cloth discarded beside a scrubby hedge ten feet back from the shore. 

"I thought on a morning like this you'd be snapping pictures like a blue-assed fly." Sean finally pulled his eyes away from the water to look at him, and Viggo was struck again by the symmetry of the other man's face. There was something regal about him; Norse. He thought, not for the first time, that Sean must have been a Viking in a previous life. Anyone who had seen him rooting for Sheffield against Nottingham would have understood the similarities - only a Berserker could have equaled Sean at the peak of his obsession.

"It's nice to be quiet for a moment," Viggo replied, pulling his gaze away from the other man's face and looking out across the water. "Just you, me, the fish, and water lapping." Just you, me, the fish, and water lapping. A possibility for poetry. He filed it away for future reference, along with the sensory memory of the dusky scent of the mist and the cold, chilled sound of the water striking Sean's boulder.

"That it is." There was a pause, then Sean said - with an audible smile - "I'm sure Orlando would have gone diving headlong into this lake if he'd come along with us today. He'd have been all over icicles if he had done, too." He shook his head, laughing softly. "Southern Softie bastard."

Viggo nodded, one corner of his mouth tugging up in a smile as he thought of their young cast mate, by far the most inexperienced of the real life Fellowship. "Then it's best he didn't come, or we'd never get any fish at all with him splashing around."

"We aren't as it is. Would you snap us a few shots, Viggo? Something for me to show the girls when I get home. You'd make them look professional. I'd just butcher them."

Viggo thought for a moment, and let his gaze wander over the misty mountains again. Misty mountains. Misty Mountains. Tolkien, he thought, would have been struck by how closely New Zealand resembled his primeval vision of England. For a moment, he wondered what the aged professor would have thought of the men chosen to play his Fellowship. Would he have seen Frodo's earnestness in Elijah's eyes? The amiable loyalty of Sam in the other Sean? Gimli's fierceness in John's dark gaze? Or Pippin and Merry's fresh-faced amazement when he looked at Billy and Dominic?

Most of all, he wondered what Tolkien would have thought of his Men. It was a daunting task, bringing to life a character as loved and well-known as Aragorn. Here was a character who had, in every way, been imagined, envisioned, and illustrated by countless readers for decades. There was something invigorating about bringing Elessar to life, even as it drained him emotionally and physically. 

Then there was Boromir, the ill-fated, broken hero. What would Tolkien have said, had he seen Sean donning the round shield and heavy cloak each day? A hero was, if not easy to play, then at least easy to imagine. A hero was the man who made decisions - even hard ones - and always made them right. Boromir was a hero who made a hard decision, and made it wrong. Viggo couldn't imagine how difficult that was to play. And the man playing him didn't seem to realize how amazing that was. Instead, he chatted about photography.

Without even realizing it, Viggo discovered he had been reeling in his line. As frequently happened, he had unconsciously made the decision without letting himself in on the debate. Setting aside the pole, he made his way quietly back to his coat and fished around in the fabric until he uncovered his camera case, wrapped loosely in the middle of the coat to keep it safely away from the dampness of the morning. "Anything particular you want a picture of?" he asked.

"I thought maybe something with those mountains," the other man answered, gesturing out across the lake at the mountains which formed the far shore. They seemed to rear up out of the very water itself, as though the lapping waves were splashing against the toes of their foothills. "Evie's just a little thing now, but when she gets a little older, she'll never believe mountains that big actually exist. She'll think I'm lying if I don't have proof." 

Viggo couldn't resist a grin. Sean's love for rugby was only outdone by his love for his children. Evie, the youngest, was hardly more than a baby. "All right then."

He stood and held the camera to his eye in a practiced fashion. The thing about New Zealand was that every angle was a good one. The difficulty became trying to choose which one of the 360 possible options was the one most worthy of capturing on film. That, of course, didn't include the three dimensional prospects of the Y- and Z-axes, which made the choices truly infinite.

"Ta, Viggo," Sean thanked him. "You know, there's something a little unreal about this place, don't you think? Not badly - not at all. Just… ethereal I suppose is the word."

"Very," Viggo murmured in reply. He had found a good shot, where the mountains seemed to fall away, leaving the lake alone to curl over the horizon.

"When I played Sharpe," Sean continued, "and we were filming in Crimea, it felt rough. I felt like a soldier. Now I'm here, playing a soldier in a fantasy world, and … I'm not sure, Viggo. I don't know if I can do it quite the justice it deserves." He paused, then continued quietly, in that self-conscious manner that was his wont, "I have doubts."

_Click._

Viggo lowered the camera and turned to look at his friend. The Viking had suddenly been besieged with indecision. The royal equilibrium of his face had been undone, replaced with the mundane worries of the Everyman. There was a hint of the North English working man in that face - the stress that the steel mills would someday close, and work would be scarce. Only this particular steel mill was even more elusive and transitory than anything found in Yorkshire. As insubstantial as cotton candy.

Sitting on that boulder, looking at that glacial lake, was Boromir. 

Viggo raised the camera again and aimed the lens in Sean's direction. 

_Click._

Sean looked up from his contemplation of the water. "What was that one all about?" he asked.

Viggo lowered the camera. "Just a memory," he told the other man. "You, me, the fish, and water lapping, remember?"

Sean's eyes sparkled. "Sounds like a song, don't it?"

Viggo nodded, smiling. "If it had a beat, you could dance to it."

He began to tuck his camera away as Sean's laughter danced like a rill over the lake's surface. He had already thought of a title for the candid portrait he'd just taken. Sean, in his down-to-earth way, would think it was a bit flighty. But when you consorted with elves on a daily basis, you were entitled to a few flights of fancy, and this was one of those.

_Character Study: Boromir as Sean Bean, Spring in New Zealand_


End file.
